


Rakata vs Vong: Part One

by Hibbidyhai



Series: Rakata vs Vong [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, Death, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Intrigue, Original Character(s), Prequel, Rakata (Star Wars), The Force, Yuuzhan Vong (Star Wars)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27252448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hibbidyhai/pseuds/Hibbidyhai
Summary: 30,000 years before A New Hope the Rakata Infinite Empire rules much of the Galaxy Far Far Away with an iron fist. Masters of the Dark Side of the Force, their superior technology has allowed the Rakata to oppress hundreds of worlds across the galaxy. The only true threat to the Rakata are each other. The myriad beings living under their thumb know only terror and oppression.On the Rakata world of Oaka Prime the daughter of the Infinite Empire's most powerful fleet commander hunts an escaped Force Hound and her Force-sensitive children. But the local Predor sees her arrival as a challenge to his rule.Meanwhile, mysterious rumors hint that another threat to the Rakata may lurk in the shadows...
Series: Rakata vs Vong [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1989829
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

Smoke from a dozen fires drifted over the thatched roofs of a small village, mixing with the fog that hung over the rocky moors to form a smothering blanket. Fearful whispers passed through the air as the villagers cowered and fell to their knees in the bare dirt that passed for streets. A shadow moved over them, causing the smoke and fog to swirl  over their heads . As the mist swirled a low pitched rhythmic noise surrounded them, growing into a thunderous cacophony.

The shadow slowed and then hovered over the  center of the village and the bonfires that yet burned throughout. The fog parted as a strange spherical craft with two forward swept triangular wings and a tall vertical tail descended to the ground. Red lines appeared on the bottom hemisphere of the craft, expanding and meeting at ninety degree angles, forming a rectangle. A section of the sphere, outlined by the rectangle, separated from the craft and lowered itself to the ground, forming a ramp. Silhouetting the form of a tall, muscular being, red light emanated from within. The being stepped outward, the claws on his three-toed feet gripping into the black stone of the ramp. His skin, mottled in tones of teal and  grey , glistened as the fog condensed upon his flesh.

The being gazed out upon the prostrated humans, a cruel look in the orange eyes that sat in stalks upon each side of his narrow head. He wore a purple vest that covered his muscular chest, gold  fiber outlining the edges of the  armor that rested upon his shoulders. He carried a golden staff in one of his three fingered hands. He stuck the shaft violently into the dirt after taking the first step off of the ramp. Another figure emerged from the craft, following in the wake of the first. The follower was a human man of pale, almost deathly pallor. His posture was hunched over, as if he had spent so much time bowing subserviently he could adopt no other position. He stepped off the ramp, following his Master as he surveyed the human villagers. Finally the tall being gazed upon the bonfires, his shallow nostrils quivering in annoyance at the acrid smoke. 

“Put out those fires,” he commanded, his voice arrogant and spiteful. The hunched man who trailed him translated the order, shouting  it in the villager’s native tongue. There was a slight hesitation before a half dozen of the  villagers  rose and obeyed the command. While diverting their gaze from their imperious visitor they ran to the nearest huts, grabbing buckets. They hastily filled them in the water troughs and began throwing them upon the bonfires. Torrents of steam filled the air, joining the oppressive smoky haze that already covered the area.The tall visitor watched as the fires were extinguished one by one, charred forms emerging in the ashes, almost burned beyond recognition. 

He turned to his servant. “Why have they been burning their own? Why have they, and the other villagers on this tiny little world, abandoned their fields?”

The servant moved amongst the villagers, barking out questions that the villagers seemed reluctant to answer. The tall being became impatient, stepping towards the villagers and examining the crowd before picking out one of the oldest. The being’s head tilted upwards, his eyes closing. Next he raised a hand and the villager grasped at his neck, his eyes widening in terror as he rose into the air, as if lifted by an invisible  force . 

“One of you will speak now,” the alien visitor warned. While the old man struggled to breathe a woman rose to her feet and rushed forward, wearing not much more than rags, her auburn hair  discolored with ash. The hunch backed man moved to intercept her but she held out her hand, stopping him short.

“There is a plague in the lowlands,” she answered in the visitor’s own language. He regarded her curiously, dropping his hand. The old man dropped as well, landing on his back and gasping as air once again found his lungs. “None of our crops will grow,” she continued. “Our livestock becomes sick. Our children too.”

“How did you learn the  Master tongue?” the visitor asked. 

“I ... I listen to the wind,” she answered hesitatingly. 

“Indeed,” the visitor commented, his curiosity growing. “Why the burnings?”

“They were infected,” she answered simply.

The visitor regarded her for a moment longer before gesturing towards his ship. He spoke no audible command but a moment later two more of his kind descended the ramp, wearing similar vests but in grey colors and without any gold braiding. Each of them carried a staff similar to the visitor’s, but silver in finish. They lowered the ends of their weapons, pointing them towards the villagers.

“You were right to cull the infected among you,” the visitor spoke, his deep voice marked with arrogance. “I am  Tora’tak, Predor and Legad of the Rakata  Infinite Empire. I am responsible for every world in this sector. Just as you could not allow the sick and weak amongst you to threaten the rest, I cannot allow this sick world to spread its infection.” He gestured to his subordinates. A moment later red fire erupted from the ends of their staff weapons, like bolts of red lightning. The villagers screamed in terror and attempted to flee as they were cut down. But none got far.

The woman with the auburn hair attempted to flee as well, pushing aside the hunch backed servant with ease. But before she could escape she was yanked backwards, lifted off of her feet, and deposited on the ground before Tora’tak.

“Not you,” he said. He extended a hand, which she looked upon in fear and anger. “You have the  Force flowing in your veins. While the weak are culled, the strong will be lifted up and made to serve. Stand.”

She eyed his hand with hate filled eyes but did as he ordered. All around her, the rest of the village burned, but unlike the fires the villagers had set themselves, these flames consumed everything, sending thick fumes into the air. Tora’tak motioned towards his ship and, with a final tear filled gaze directed towards her dying people, she walked up the ramp. 

* * *

Thirteen Years Later 

Amidst the shallow oceans that dominated most of the world of Oaka Prime stretched a series of narrow peninsulas along the equator, like snaking slivers of gold floating atop a sea of sapphire. Amongst the landscape of sand and narrow seas a windblown city emerged, a mass of mostly low lying buildings constantly battered by the salty spray. Most of the buildings that stretched the dozens of  kilometers between each coastline were built of golden hued adobe brick, topped with haphazard domed roofs. Walking the brick covered streets of the city were a mix of beings of many different species, all of them under the thrall of the Rakata. Humans,  Gran, Duro, Noghri and some others, all living together, united by a common language and a mutual suffering. Small primitive fishing vessels, their linen sails flagging in the breeze, bobbed over the waves along the coastline. 

Towering over the surrounding settlement was a structure unlike any other. Walls made of adobe brick were traded for black obsidian and a dark grey metal. A domed roof was traded for a large obelisk shaped tower that extended for a hundred meters into the sky. A red orb at the pointed tip of the tower shone with an insidious glow, even in the brightest light of day.

In the northern part of town, but within sight of the Rakata tower, a crowd was gathering. Beings of all shapes and sizes stood near a tiered ziggurat of the same style as the tower. A cohort of Rakata soldiers, who wore armored uniforms in red and dark grey, stood at attention, a handful of them at the steps of each of the seven tiers that made up the ziggurat. 

A wave of thunder rolled over the crowd as a Rakata shuttle descended through the upper atmosphere towards them. The spherical craft, with two long wings that extended from each side of the hull before extending forward in the shape of a dagger, slowed as it descended before settling atop the highest level of the ziggurat. A boarding ramp opened and two Rakata guards exited, their  armor similar to the other soldiers surrounding the ziggurat but different in  coloration ; trading red and grey for  dark purple. They moved to each side of the ramp and stood at attention as a third being emerged, their staff weapons held parallel to their bodies.

This one was slightly more slender than the males to each side of her, although she was just as muscular. Her teal and  grey flesh, mottled with specks of white under her arms and around her neck, contrasted with the purple battle  armor she wore on her shoulders. Unlike her guard she carried no staff. Instead a pair of bladeless hilts rested upon each hip. She stepped forward and  looked out upon the gathered crowd before turning her gaze to two of the local Rakata guards who approached.

“Where is Predor Kil’as’s Censor?” she asked the nearest guard, the eyes at the end of each stalk on the side of her head narrowing. Her voice carried through the air with a strong sense of authority.

“He is ... engaged,” the guard answered hesitatingly. “A transport should be arriving to bring you to the Predor’s palace shortly.”

One of the Rakata woman’s guards stepped forward, clearing his throat as he prepared to berate his local counterpart. But she held up her hand and the guard halted at once. “No matter. We will walk.”

“Walk?” the local guard asked in surprise. Before they could react she began to descend the stairs that ran down the side of the ziggurat. The guards at each level trailed after her, only her own pair of soldiers successfully keeping pace with her. 

The crowd below parted before her, the huddled masses gazed at her in a mix of fear and awe. Most of them were in various states of starvation, with sunken eyes and protruding ribs. The guards, including her own, simply looked past them. They did not need their eyes to sense danger. She however, swept her eyes over the crowd as she began the long trek towards the palace. She noted the dilapidated state of their housing, the potholes and missing brick in the streets. 

There were carts, most of them made of softwood and reeds, but no pack animals. There were no signs of automation or machinery of any kind. She passed a market, which seemed abandoned of its primary purpose. There was trash and refuse sitting in the gutters and alleyways between buildings. The smell stung at her nostrils.

As the procession reached nearly halfway to the palace, a levitating chariot, its golden cladding shining brilliantly, lowered itself before them, kicking up a cloud of dust and sand. Another Rakata stepped off the back, this one wearing the garb of a low level attendant. 

“Sub-Predor Sira’tak,” the attendant said, bowing towards the Rakata woman in a signal of respect. “Predor Kil’las apologizes for the inhospitality of your arrival. He says that you arrived earlier than expected…”  
“I arrived exactly when I meant to,” Sira’tak answered, her voice dismissive. “And I’ve never heard of a superior apologizing to an inferior before.”

“The Predor knows your reputation well,” the attendant said.

“Or my father’s reputation,” she said quietly. She glanced around at the thralls surrounding them. The slaves seemed to have little else to do but gawk. “Very well, I’ll take the transport,” she said at last. “I think I’ve seen enough.”

“Of course,” the attendant said, bowing and allowing her to board, followed by her guard. The chariot levitated and rose into the air. Sira’tak gazed out over the city. It looked much the same from the sky as it did from the ground. Even far from the main street that led from the landing platform to the palace the people seemed to be wandering around aimlessly or huddled into groups. None of them seemed to have any purpose or direction. Her nostrils flared in disgust.

The obsidian palace and its pointed tower soon came into view. The chariot drifted through an opening in the side of the pyramidal roof shaped much like the cell of a honeycomb. The opening led into a hangar filled with similar chariots, as well as atmospheric fighters that looked like spherical  birds-of-prey . Their chariot settled into an open space and, after stepping off of the hovercraft, Sira’tak allowed the attendant to guide her and her guards through the hangar and to a large open corridor. The  walls, floor and ceiling were all carved out of the same black stone, which had an almost metallic finish. A line of red light ran along both sides of the wall, near the ceiling, providing the only light. There were no windows or open spaces. 

The attendant stepped onto a large platform and waited for his guests to follow. Once everyone was aboard he swiped his three fingered hand over a small control panel that had no visible buttons or screens. There was a subtle shimmer in the air as the panel reacted to the attendant’s influence. Suddenly the platform began to descend through the palace. They passed nearly a dozen identical looking floors before arriving in the throne room. 

The elevator platform entered the long room from the side. Sira’tak stepped between a pair of thick columns of polished stone and into view of a gathered crowd. At the end of the room, on a raised platform, an elderly Rakata sat upon his throne. Predor Kil’las was wrinkled and slightly hunched over, but still held himself with an aura of projected power. The floor between them, twenty  meters of polished obsidian, inlaid with silver, was empty. Around the outskirts of the room stood between twenty to thirty other Rakata. Some of them were attendants like the one who guided Sira’tak through the palace. Others were guards. To one side of the black and gold throne stood another Rakata, who wore the silver and tan  armor of a Censor, the Predor’s chief nonmilitary advisor and representative. 

All of them stared as Sira’tak approached the throne. She took a knee at precisely ten  meters from the dias, the action mirrored by her guards. She kept her gaze lowered.

“You are early,” the Censor said. “But you need not have mixed with the inferiors on your way to the palace.”

“If I never mixed with inferiors I would need to lock myself away,” Sira’tak said with a slight shift towards the Censor, although she kept her gaze aimed downwards.

“You will speak with respect when spoken to by a representative of this court,” Kil’las spat angrily from his throne. His voice was hoarse, perhaps out of disuse. Sira’tak finally raised her head and gazed into the Predor’s eyes. She noticed they were yellowed and slightly bloodshot. It was a typical characteristic with age, especially when one spent several human lifetimes steeped in the power of the  dark side of the  Force .

Sira’tak stood, without permission, drawing a handful of gasps from the crowd. “Which one is your Primus?” she asked, her gaze falling upon the various warriors that stood within the vicinity of the throne. 

“How dare you,” the Censor cried out. Kil’las stood at last, shaking slightly, although whether it was out of anger or age it was hard to tell.

“You wish to challenge me in my own throne room?” Kil’las asked.

“No,” Sira’tak answered, keeping her expression neutral. “I wish to challenge your Primus. If he or she isn’t present I will challenge three or four of your guards.”

“I am present,” a muscular Rakata answered. This one’s flesh was  grey , unlike the red hued tones of most of the others. Sira’tak guessed Kil’las had recruited him from one of the older clans closely related to her own. He was taller than most of the others, and more thickly built as well, especially when compared to the relatively thin Sira’tak. “I accept your challenge,” the warrior added as he took a step off of the platform and onto the floor. “I hope your father will not miss you.”

The  grey -skinned Primus, the Predor’s strongest and most senior warrior, took a staff weapon from one of the guards, a metallic spear. The Primus spun the weapon around his body before putting himself into a combat stance, with the tip of the spear pointed towards Sira’tak. He tightened his grip and a moment later purple energy erupted around the blade. 

Sira’tak removed the two bladeless hilts from the belt around her waist, keeping her eyes on her opponent as she did so. She held each of them wide from her body. Thin strands of purple lightning emerged from the end of each hilt, coalescing into undulating blades of energy, similar to the energy around the Primus’ spear but without any solid blade to help give them form. The Primus’ eyes widened slightly at the display, but he maintained his stance. 

“Are you ready?” Sira’tak asked with a bored sigh. Her opponent charged forward, spinning his spear and then plunging it towards her heart. Rather than deflect the attack with one of her energy blades, Sira’tak remained motionless, her eyes focused on her opponent. Suddenly, just as the tip of the spear and the energy pulsing around it was  centimeters from her chest, he froze. 

“You should have trained your mind as much as your body,” Sira’tak spoke, loud enough for the entire room to hear. His eyes widened in shock as Sira’tak dropped her guard and stepped out of the way of the spear tip. He pulled at his spear, this way and that, but seemed unable to move it. She slowly walked around the frozen warrior and then casually plunged one of her blades into his back. Finally he moved, but only to crumple onto the floor. 

Despite his mortal wound the warrior struggled back to his feet, his breathing labored. Sira’tak turned her back on him and gazed in turn at Kil’las and his Censor. The Primus raised his spear and moved it into position, his body shaking with the effort, aiming to plunge it into her turned back. As soon as he took his first step forward he suddenly  shot upwards into the air. His body flew tens of  meters at high speed, a startled cry escaping him that receded as he gained altitude. A sickening crunch resounded through the throne room as he smashed into the ceiling. A moment later his lifeless body fell downwards, landing with a meaty thud behind Sira’tak. 

“Are we finished with the games?” Sira’tak asked loudly, gazing at the Predor. Purple lightning erupted around Kil’las’ fist as his rage manifested. But, as Sira’tak continued to stare at him, her expression emotionless and her  demeanor unmoved, he finally released his fist and the energy along with it. Small droplets of blood dripped onto the floor where his talons had cut into his palms. Kil’las glanced over at his Censor, communicating with him wordlessly. 

“The audience is over,” the servant called. The crowd of Rakata moved to depart from the throne room, nervous glances shot towards Sira’tak and their M aster , exiting wordlessly towards the large doorway at the front of the room. When only his guards and his Censor remained Kil’las spoke.

“Why has Legad Tora’tak sent you to my domain?” Kil’las asked, injecting a vain attempt at authority into his voice.

“I no longer serve my father,” Sira’tak answered. “I come here of my own volition, although I will admit that your colony has been of interest for some time.”

“Why is that?”

“The production output from your mines has dropped to almost nothing. My father’s fleet hasn’t received a shipment of material from your system in nearly a decade. Many other Predors besides my father are beginning to grow … curious.”

“What use do they have of MY resources,” Kil’las answered angrily. “If they need more ships, more Destroyers, why don’t they request replenishment from the  Over-Predor and the  Star Forge?”

“Some do not see the wisdom of relying on a single source of production,” Sira’tak answered. “And some do not see the wisdom of relying upon the whims of the  Over-Predor .”

“I would watch your tone,” Kil’las admonished. “I will not tolerate treason.”

“Apologies,” Sira’tak said, bowing her head. 

“So, you’re here to spy on my world. Yet you said you no longer serve your father…”

“I am merely a Sub-Predor seeking a M aster ,” Sira’tak revealed. “If you are willing, I will accept your sponsorship.”

Kil’las’s Censor spared a worried glance with his M aster , but the Predor cut him off with a swipe of his hand. “If you think to overthrow me, if you think age has made me weak, you are mistaken.”

“If I wished to overthrow you I would have challenged  _ you _ in front of your court, instead of your Primus.”

“Then why are you here, instead of carving out your own territory from one of the newly conquered worlds?”

Sira’tak paused before answering. “I have received admonitions,” she answered vaguely. 

“You are a Seer?” Kil’las asked, curiosity finally overcoming some of his suspicion. 

“I have many gifts,” she answered.

“Hmph,” Kil’las grunted. “So it seems.” Despite the increasingly frantic expression of his Censor, who already knew his M aster ’s mind, Kil’las seemed to come to a decision. “Very well. I will accept you as my Sub-Predor. In exchange I will accept nothing less than undying loyalty. You will answer to me, understand? Not to your father or any other Predor.”

“Except for the  Over-Predor ,” Sira’tak added.

Kil’las’ eyes narrowed in annoyance but he nodded affirmatively. “Yes, of course.”

“I find these terms acceptable,” Sira’tak agreed. “If you have no immediate tasks for me I would like to tour your domain.”

“Very well,” Kil’las said with a wave of his hand. “I’ll give you two days.” Sira’tak bowed and, followed by her guards, turned her back on the elderly Predor, moving with graceful purpose towards the front entrance.

When she was gone the Censor turned towards his M aster . “Predor, I do not trust her.”

“Neither do I, I’m not a fool,” Kil’las said. “Put an escort on her at all times. If you receive word that she has tried to communicate with her father, or anyone else offworld, I want you to have her killed. Do you understand?”

“Of course. But killing her….does not seem like it will be easy.”

“Bombard her from high orbit if you have to,” Kil’las said dismissively. 

“As you wish, Predor,” the Censor said, bowing as he stepped off of the platform and moved to exit the throne room. Most of the guards followed. Kil’las returned to his throne, paranoid thoughts beginning to invade his mind from all angles. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Sira'tak begins a tour of Oaka Prime, her subordinates hunt for the runaway Force Hound and her children.

Sira’tak watched as the slums cleared out before her. The inferior beings filed out of their hovels, their fearful gaze cast upon the numerous Rakata guards who were spreading out throughout the complex calling the inhabitants to muster outside, the volume of their voices enhanced by the Force. She stood amidst a  neighborhood of multi-level dwellings built haphazardly upon each other with little regard for sense or order. Sira’tak waited until the rest of Kil’las’s soldiers were busy before she turned to her two bodyguards. 

“Juro’na, Kal’los,” she said quietly. The two, who stood just behind her as they always had ever since their arrival on Oaka Prime, turned towards her attentively. “Begin searching for the runaway and her children. If any of Kil’las’s people question you, tell them you are examining the city on my behalf.”

“Will they believe such an excuse?” Juro’na asked. He was the younger and more inexperienced of the pair.

“It doesn’t matter what they believe,” Sira’tak answered quietly. “I am a Sub-Predor.”

“Very well,” Kal’los said, his voice slightly deeper than Juro’na’s, although the pair were similar in appearance and stature. They bowed in respect and then departed, blending seamlessly into the crowd and disappearing.

Sira’tak turned her attention back to the scene unfolding in front of her. The Rakata guard continued to fan out, keeping the crowd a respectful distance from their superior. A low level Rakata official, who wore a half-pauldron vest in Kil’las’s  colors , stepped forward.

“Sub-Predor, the domiciles have been cleared and are ready for your inspection,” the official announced with a respectful bow.

“Very well, proceed,” Sira’tak said, motioning for the official to lead the way. 

* * *

The capital city of Oaka Prime had been buzzing ever since Sira’tak’s arrival. For the slaves there was a mix of hope and fear. Hope that this new official wouldn’t be as bad as the current ones. Fear that she would be worse. Near the city’s southern end a series of multi-tiered mud brick huts stood at the very edge of the water, far from Kil’nas’s palace and the landing platform. The structure did not seem entirely stable, for the constant barrage of the sea had already collapsed several structures into the water.

A small human boy with dirty auburn hair, which hung messily over his ears and eyes, emerged from the second floor of one of the huts, a bucket in one hand and a rope in the other. Casting surreptitious glances at the nearby houses he carefully  maneuvered down the narrow set of stairs that were set along the wall. Just as he reached the bottom corner of the house an enormous wave crashed against the shore. The boy leaned away from the wave, which seemed ready to knock him off of his feet and carry  him out to sea. Instead the water avoided him, as if an invisible  shield surrounded his body. The water curved around him and crashed into the street, but left him untouched.

The boy turned his bucket over, pouring out the small amount of saltwater that had splashed into it, and continued on his way. He went up the street and between two buildings, emerging onto a more crowded thoroughfare. Trash was piled up along each side of the street. Beings of many species sat in huddled groups around fire pits, attempting to cook what little food they had. The boy emerged into a square that, in better times, might have been a market. At the  center of the square was a well situated on top of a stone platform. Several lines of beings awaited their turn at the well, watched over by a pair of green skinned  Gamorreans who used their intimidating size to bully the others.

He quietly got into one of the lines and slowly moved forward until he reached the nearest Gammorean, casting nervous looks in its direction all the while. 

“What bring?” the  Gamorrean asked, his grunting voice barely comprehensible. The curved tusks beneath each side of his snout were discolored with dried blood, which could have only come from eating something that was still living. The boy set his bucket down and quickly searched his ragged clothes. A moment later he offered a rock to the  pig-like alien, who took it with a snatching motion. It was a flint stone, used to light fires. The  Gamorrean held it up to its snout and sniffed loudly, twice. “No good,” it grunted, tossing the flint stone aside. It had hardly touched the ground before a human man grabbed it and ran off.

“Hey,” the boy shouted angrily. “What are you doing?”

“Dumb rock no good. What else?” the Gamorrean grunted.

“That was a flint stone you dumb pig,” the boy said. “That was my toll.”

The G amorrean glanced over to where it had thrown the flint stone, quickly  realizing its mistake. The stone, and the human who had taken it, were long gone. “Got ‘nother?”

“No, that was it,” the boy answered quietly, trying to keep his annoyance hidden.

Suddenly the G amorrean raised a stone club and pushed the boy out of line with its other hand, sending him falling backwards and the bucket clattering to the ground. “No toll, no water.”

“I already gave you my toll,” he said, quickly getting back to his feet. He reached out and the bucket leapt up and flew back into his hand.

The G amorrean stared at the bucket, blinking his eyes as if they were deceiving him. His shock had interrupted his anger, although his club was still held aloft. But the other G amorrean , who had been watching one of the other lines, had not witnessed the feat. They approached the boy from behind, raising a club and preparing to strike and eliminate a potential nuisance. 

But just as the G amorrean began to swing its club downwards its forearm was suddenly stuck, as if an invisible hand had reached out and grabbed it. The boy heard the commotion from the G amorrean behind him as it grunted and struggled to move its frozen arm. He turned to find a human girl, the same age as the boy and with the same red hair, holding her hand aloft, her eyes glued to the G amorrean and its club. 

“C’mon Esson, let’s get out of here,” the girl shouted. 

“Right,” the boy agreed. The other G amorrean had snapped out of its funk, and was preparing to resume its attack on Esson, spurred on now by fear after witnessing the plight of its fellow. The boy ran past the stuck G amorrean and joined the girl, just as she released her invisible grip. Together they ran out of the square, the eyes of the crowd fixed on their backs.

“Thanks Maryn,” the boy said as they continued their retreat through the streets. They paused to catch their breath in an alleyway between two residential buildings. The girl was a few inches taller than the boy, but they shared similar facial features. Both of them had piercing bright blue eyes. 

“You lost the flint stone?” Maryn asked.

“Yeah, the dumb pig man was too stupid to  recognize it,” Esson answered.

“Figures,” she said with a sigh. “At least we don’t need it to start a fire.”

“We need water though,” he said. “Mom is getting sicker.”

“We’ll just have to try another well,” she said, her voice thick with determination. “One that isn’t guarded by G amorreans this time.” She poked her head out of the alleyway. The street was almost completely empty. For some reason most of the people seemed to be elsewhere. 

“We’re going to need something else to trade, G amorreans or no,” Esson said worriedly.

“We better start looking then,” Maryn said, motioning that the way was clear before she stepped back out onto the street. Esson reluctantly followed.

* * *

Sira’tak’s nostrils wrinkled in disgust as she was led through a dingy corridor in one of the habitations that had been cleared for her inspection. Very few of the rooms had windows or ventilation of any kind. There was hardly any  furniture, no running water and no place to store food. She now  realized why so many of the inferiors chose to loiter outside rather than indoors. 

“I thought it smelled bad on the outside,” she complained aloud. One of Kil’las’s servants, who had hardly stepped out of her shadow since she had departed the palace, shrugged as if to say that the visit hadn’t been his idea. Sira’tak was ready to begin her exit until she noticed a room at the end of the hall, one that actually had a window. She noticed that this room, compared to the others, was clean. Catching her minders by surprise Sira’tak changed course and entered the lit room. Several linen mats had been placed around the shape of the light on the floor created by the window. In the middle of the light a strange symbol had been etched into the floor, scratched out with a rock or some other primitive instrument. The etching was an imperfect circle surrounded by multiple waving rays. It looked almost like a  star . Or perhaps the waving tentacles of a sea creature. 

“What is that?” she asked, nodding towards the symbol.

“I don’t pay attention to what the primitives scratch into the ground,” the Rakata minder answered dismissively.

“Your helpfulness continues to astound,” Sira’tak said dryly. Suddenly she felt a small tickle in the back of her mind. It was a telepathic signal from Juro’na, sent through the  Force . He had found a lead. “I think I’ve seen enough,” she announced. “I’d like to see the mines now.”

“Very well,” the Rakata official said. “I will summon a transport.” He motioned for her to exit and, this time, she obliged.

* * *

Juro’na stood at the edge of the square, watching quietly as a pair of G amorreans near a well ruthlessly beat every smaller being they could get their  hands on . The pale, purple skinned Rakata closed his eyes, reaching and observing the scene with the  Force . The crowd around him was filled with fear and anger, most of it directed towards the two G amorreans . He could feel these  dark emotions washing over him from the inferior beings, emotions that sharpened his own connection to the  dark side. 

But rather than let the feelings of the inhabitants overwhelm him, he focused his mind upon the two G amorreans . The green  pig-like humanoids were filled with anger and hate. Anger at a recent embarrassment. Hate for those that had embarrassed them. Juro’na invaded their minds with his own, which wasn’t hard to do considering their relative lack of self control and his power with the Force. Juro’na saw the images of the human children through their eyes. He saw the their effortless use of the  Force , and then smiled.

He opened his eyes. His invasion of their minds had broken the pair of G amorreans out of their rage. They held their clubs aloft, mid beating, a stupor apparently having fallen over them. Juro’na glanced around at the crowd, a mix of H umans,  G ran and  N oghri . They were on the verge of exploiting the situation for a counterattack. 

Juro’na reached out with his hand, remembering a technique that Sira’tak had taught him. “The bullies are nothing.” He spoke softly but his voice echoed within the minds of every being in the square. “Take your revenge.”

The crowd erupted at once, dozens of beings converging upon the two G amorreans . Despite their size and strength the pair were ripped apart in an instant, torn at from every angle by an animalistic mob. Juro’na turned and moved away from the violence left in his wake. He recalled the memories  he had pulled from the G amorrean , noting which way the human children had gone. He closed his eyes momentarily, sending a telepathic message to his M aster .

“I have found them,” he said aloud, repeating his mental message.

* * *

Sira’tak gazed out over the calm sea that stretched beyond the coastline of the peninsula. She stood in the back of an airspeeder that was very much a scaled up version of the hover chariots that Kil’las’s servants used to move about the city. The pilot stood at the front of the vessel, both of his three fingered hands placed above control panels that were absent any visible buttons or instruments. Two guards stood to either side behind the pilot, both of them staring out across the sea, although Sira’tak could sense their energies were instead focused on her. Behind the guards and opposite of herself stood the low level official that Kil’las had tasked with following her around. 

To either side of the gold plated airship flew two unmanned Rakata fighters. The drones were shaped like thin  birds-of-prey , with the same forward swept wings as other Rakata craft, but with plasma cannons instead of landing legs mounted to each side of the body. Although the drones operated autonomously they received their instructions through the  Force, from a Rakata controller; in this case from the pilot who was directing the airship towards their destination. If she wanted to remove the drones from the air, her first step would be to remove the pilot from his controls…

Sira’tak’s casually violent thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of their destination on the horizon. A small chain of volcanic islands interrupted the endless panorama of the sea like a necklace of serrated teeth running in a line from northwest to southeast. Unlike the terrain back on the peninsula, which was mostly rolling sand dunes and sandy beaches, the islands before them were made up of black, craggy rock that shot up out of the water at steep inclines. The water on the leeward side of the three largest islands was  discolored with plumes of  orange, yellow and red ; hues too bright to be caused by anything natural. As the airship and the pair of drones accompanying it grew closer the mining facilities situated on the face of one of the mountains came into view.

The entrance to the mining shafts were like a series of insect holes drilled into the sides of the mountain, seemingly at random and with little regard to safety; there were numerous shafts that seemed to have hit lava tubes, making the island seem as if it were bleeding magma. Makeshift cranes and processing equipment were scattered about on the hillsides, most of it in extreme disrepair. Enormous fabric tents, consisting of not much more than sailing masts mounted on land, provided the only living quarters for the workers.

Their airship began to descend towards a landing pad on the largest island while the two drones turned into a banking  maneuver that would allow them circle overhead. The pad was built out of the same black metal that most Rakata structures were; it was the only sign of advanced technology on the island. The airship settled gently onto the pad and the two guards were the first to disembark, followed by Kil’las’s official. Sira’tak took her time, silently extending her senses. She could feel the thousands of workers occupying the tents on the hillsides and beaches around the island, feel their sense of despair and exhaustion. She could sense none of them at work in the mines. 

She moved around the  outside of the airship and followed the others towards a walkway that led from the pad to the rocky beach. As she walked, she noticed that the discoloration in the water came from mounds of minerals that had been dumped into the sea. The discoloration was oozing out of the material almost as if it were bleeding. As Sira’tak looked up and down the beach she noticed similar mounds of minerals in the water.

Sira’tak felt a projected sense of annoyance from Kil’las’s official through the  Force , which was immediately duplicated by both of the guards. She shifted her attention to them and projected her own sense of annoyance. 

“It seems the mines are inactive,” she spoke aloud. 

“The merciful Predor Kil’las grants the inferiors one day of rest for every six days of work. If we did not do so the population would experience increased attrition,” he said impassively.

Sira’tak gestured with one hand towards the nearest mound of minerals. “And what they do produce during those six days is dumped into the ocean?”

“The purpose of the work is to keep the population at reasonable levels,” the official stated plainly. “Predor Kil’las has no use for rocks. His  forces are equipped by the Starforge.”

With an upward sweep of her hand some of the minerals under discussion  rose out of the water and floated towards Sira’tak. She caught it midair and, with only some slight exertion, crushed the white, chalky material. “If I am not mistaken this is cortosis,” she said, allowing the crumbled remains to fall to the ground.

“All of the mines on Oaka Prime produce cortosis,” the official said.

“Of course they do, because that is the only thing worth the trouble of mining,” Sira’tak retorted, a small amount of anger seeping into her voice. “It is one of the few minerals that the  Star Forge cannot produce.”

“I didn’t know that,” the official admitted.

“But you’re not producing it, are you? Cortosis doesn’t do the  Infinite Empire any good dissolving away at the bottom of the sea,” she said, the eyes on the sides of her head narrowing. 

“This is Predor Kil’las’s world,” the official said, ignoring her anger. “If he wants to dump its wealth into the sea, that is his prerogative.”

“As you say,” Sira’tak said, backing down with a shrug of her shoulders. She dumped the powdered remains of the cortosis onto the ground. Unrefined and, as this was, soaking in salt water, the material was worthless. But refined and worked into metallic alloys it could create the strongest armor known to the Rakata. “Let’s get on with the tour,” she said at last.

* * *

Esson and Maryn continued to navigate their way through the streets, carefully hugging the sides of the buildings as they went. They were not on the lookout for the Rakata overlords. The masters hardly ever bothered to patrol this far from the palace or the landing pad ziggurat and most of the time showed little interest policing their underlings. Still, the streets were emptier than usual, even accounting for the seasonally hot weather. Esson could sense that much of the population was drawn towards the  center of the city, towards some sort of activity that held little concern for the human children or their mother. Instead they were on the lookout for thugs similar to the G amorreans back at the well, beings that had bullied themselves into positions of authority. 

While Esson took in the surrounding  neighborhoods with his  Force enhanced senses Maryn stayed laser focused on their immediate path. At times his sister had to physically push  him out of the way of deep potholes in the street or broken down carts, lest he blunder into them. But then, just as she gently steered her brother away from a wookiee that was so weak with hunger it could barely stand, Esson pulled his hand out of his older sister’s grasp.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice filled with annoyance. 

“There’s ... something wrong back there,” he answered, his voice soft and ethereal. 

“Back where?” Maryn asked. She focused her senses in the direction he was looking, but found this particular skill more difficult than her brother did. 

“From the wells. The people are fighting the G amorreans .”

“Good, hopefully they’re getting what they deserve,” Maryn stated.

“But, they aren’t doing it on their own. It’s like someone pushed them.”

Before she could respond to that ominous assumption, she noticed something that her brother did not. A figure drifted down the middle of the street, the sound of measured footsteps slowly growing nearer echoing towards them. She withheld a gasp when she  realized it was a Rakata, and one that was slowly moving right towards them. 

“We have to move,” Maryn said, grabbing her brother by the arm and shaking  him out of his reverie. But just as he shook his head and began to move with her she felt an invisible hand grip her around the waist and pull her backwards. 

“Maryn!” Esson shouted, reaching out for his sister just as she left her feet and hurtled through the air. Resisting the fearful temptation to run away he instead ran after her. He stopped in his tracks  as  he reached the purple skinned Rakata, who was gazing down at him in curiosity.

“Put her down!” he shouted. Juro’na smiled viciously at the boy, but his eyes narrowed slightly in surprised concern when he felt the little human in his grip pushing against him, much stronger than any child ought to be capable of. 

“You have your mother’s power,” Juro’na spoke. “It seems Sira’tak was right.”

“You know about mom?” Esson asked cautiously, his attention slipping ever so slightly out of focus.

“Don’t tell him anything,” Maryn ordered through gritted teeth. The Rakata’s solid grip on her body was solid, immovable, yet he was not squeezing her to the point of injury. “Run away.”

“I’m not going to leave you behind,” Esson said adamantly.

“You should listen to the girl,” Juro’na agreed. But, with a sharp toothed smirk upon his face, he reached out with his other hand, plucking the boy off of his feet and holding him captive just as he was the other child. For a moment both siblings squirmed in mid air.

“Let him go!” Maryn shouted. She shoved outwards with one of her hands, directing an invisible blast at the Rakata. This time Juro’na stumbled backwards. The girl broke out of his grasp and landed on her feet, momentarily as astonished by the feat as Juro’na was.

“Not bad,” Juro’na said. He raised his other hand and his short staff leapt into his hand, a weapon half the length compared to the version that Kil’las’s subordinates used. But, unlike Kil’las’s Primus in the duel against his mistress, he didn’t bother charging his weapon with the  Dark Side of the  Force . 

In a flash of movement Juro’na leapt at the girl and swung outwards with his staff. She managed to raise an arm against the impending strike, displaying quick reflexes, and followed the motion up by raising an invisible shield to protect herself. But Juro’na’s staff easily ripped through it and impacted against her forearm, breaking bone and causing the girl to scream in pain. Her cry was silenced an instant later by a follow up strike that hit her in the head with enough  force to knock her unconscious. Her small body fell to the dusty street with a soft thump.

“No!” Esson shouted. It was now his turn to break out of Juro’na’s grasp, his power fueled by primal rage. Juro’na felt the boy’s power wash over him, but this time he maintained his footing. Esson ran forward before shoving outwards with both hands at the Rakata, driving a blast of air towards his opponent. 

But Juro’na swiped outwards with his staff, cutting the blast of air into halves that deflected away from him harmlessly. “Nice try,” he said. He reached out and grabbed the boy with the  Force , pulling the little human towards him. The Rakata felt another blast of air, this one more desperate but less focused than the last, before he swung outwards and smacked the boy across the forehead with his staff. He fell silently to the ground, landing beside his sister.

“Powerful little runts,” Juro’na admitted begrudgingly. He glanced around his surroundings. If their struggle had drawn any attention from the inhabitants of this particular  neighborhood he saw no signs of it. He placed his staff back into its restraint around the back of his hip and then lifted both of the children into the air with the  Force . “Let’s get the both of you to the palace,” he said to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Juro’na stood at the entrance of an alleyway, peering around the corner at the wide boulevard that led up to Kil’las’s palace. Sixteen guards, eight placed before the first set of steps and eight at the top, stood vigilant on the wide steps. His captives, Esson and Maryn leaned against the wall behind him, looking sullen but alert. Juro’na had been forced to awaken them as he got closer he got to the palace. Forcing the children to follow without constant whining had tested his patience, but the closer he got the thicker the crowds in the streets became, and he did not wish to draw attention to himself. To keep attempts at escape to a minimum he had threatened to kill one child if the other escaped, after putting them through excruciating torture. That quieted them, so far.

He felt a familiar presence approaching from behind and turned to find Kal’los entering the other side of the alleyway. Sira’tak’s other servant had a sour expression on his face as he took in the sight of the two children.

“I take it you failed to find the mother?” Juro’na asked Kal’los. Esson and Maryn glared at him.

“Obviously,” Kal’los answered bitterly. “She is either very weak or very good at hiding her energy.”

“Or perhaps a little bit of both,” Juro’na added. 

Kal’los glanced down at the siblings. “Perhaps we could rip her location from their minds.”

“I’ve already tried that,” Juro’na revealed. He glanced down at them. “But they are stubborn and surprisingly strong with the  Force .”

Kal’los crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s  never stopped you before .”

“Yes, but those methods leave scars. I think our mistress would like to decide what is appropriate before we do any permanent damage.”

“Yes,” Kal’los agreed reluctantly. He approached the opening of the alley way and glanced down the boulevard towards the palace. The crowd was still increasing in size. “But we don’t know when she will get back from her tour, and we can’t spend too much time unaccounted for.”

“Then there is nothing else to do,” Juro’na said. Wrinkles formed across his forehead, between the two eyestalks at each side of his head, the Rakata approximation of a frown. 

“What is it?” Kal’los asked.

“I sense that this will not go well.”

“There is only one way to find out,” Kal’los said. Suddenly the Rakata pushed Esson out of the alleyway and into the boulevard. “Get moving,” he snarled.

Juro’na motioned with a sweeping hand towards Maryn. The girl frowned at him but she obeyed, following in the wake of Kal’los as he steered her brother through the crowd. Juro’na took up the rear.

Despite the hundreds of beings filling up the street, the pair of Rakata were easily able to navigate their way through the crowd using gentle nudges from the  Force . The people would part for them, barely conscious of what they were doing. As they approached the steps of the enormous pyramidal structure, the guards finally took notice of them.

“Halt!” one of them shouted, raising his staff from the ground and pointing it at Kal’los. “Who are you to approach the palace of Predor Kil’las?” The fact that they were fellow Rakata seemed to inspire even more suspicion in the guards, rather than less.

“We serve Sub-Predor Sira’tak,” Juro’na answered. 

“Then why are you not by her side?” the guard asked.

Juro’na and Kal’los glanced at each other. Any explanation other than the truth, or at least truth adjacent, would earn them even more suspicion. There was no reason, other than making a meal of them, for Juro’na and Kal’los to bring two human children into the palace. Unless the children were  Force sensitive.

“These two have the gift,” Kal’los spoke at last, gesturing towards the two children. “Our mistress sensed their presence in the city and sent us to seize them.” 

“I see,” the guard said, looking from Esson to Maryn. “Why did she not ask one of us to do this?”

Kal’los motioned towards the large crowd of people behind them. “In light of present circumstances the Sub-Predor did not wish to further burden Kil’las’s resources. ”

“That’s Predor Kil’las to you,” the guard corrected.

“Of course,” Juro’na said, bowing his head slightly. “The Sub-Predor wished to give the pair of us additional experience hunting the gifted.”

“We are young,” Kal’los added, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

The guard paused for a moment, his eyes flickering as he stared off into the distance. They could tell he was mentally checking in with his superiors. For a moment Juro’na allowed his hand to slip towards his weapon.

“Very well,” the guard said at last. “You will take them to the dungeons.” 

“To the dungeons,” Kal’los repeated, giving Esson a shove towards the steps. The guards parted, allowing them to pass, and the pair of Rakata ascended the steps, their captives in tow.

* * *

Sira’tak raised a hand and scratched behind one of her eyestalks, even though she did not have an itch. The gesture was meant to convey her boredom to Kil’las’s guide and two guards she had been stuck with all day. After visiting the mines the tour had moved to one of Oaka Prime’s largest islands, or what passed for a continent on the very oceanic world. Here the sandy desert gave way to a scrubby plain, filled with grasses and shrub-like trees. A small grouping of huts, which Sira’tak refused to dignify with the title of ‘village’, stood before her. The inferiors had exited their huts and bowed in a show of respect towards their masters. As she gazed at them the thought occurred to her that, as grubby as they were, these ones had it much better than the ones living on the peninsula.

The guide gestured towards a group of large herbivores grazing just beyond the circle of huts. “They call them nerf,” he said loudly. 

“And these ... nerf herders...are enough to supply the population with food? Along with some amount of catch from the sea?” Sira’tak asked.

“Oh, no, not quite enough,” the guide said matter-of-factly. “We suspect they make up the deficit by eating each other. Which is another way of managing the population.”

Sira’tak’s forehead wrinkled in disgust. Rakata were known to  cannibalize each other, but it was a ritualistic practice full of symbolism and meaning, reserved for the defeat of a powerful rival. To resort to eating one’s own people as a matter of survival was a gross humiliation.

She approached the gathered herders, which seemed to be equal proportions of Humans, Wookiee , and Zabrak. “How many herding groups are there like this?”

“Approximately a thousand. A few hundred similar groups live on one of the smaller continents. They hunt some kind of lizard there. I don’t remember what they call them but Predor Kil’las enjoys…”

“Enough,” Sira’tak growled. She walked before the herders, who averted their eyes as she passed by. As she neared the end of the assembled line, she gazed past them, towards a fire pit at the  center of the encircled huts. In front of the charred bits of wood lay a circle made of stones, with smaller stones emanating from the circle in undulating waves. It was the same symbol she had noticed inside of the residential building she had inspected earlier in the day. “What is that?” 

The inferiors cowered in fear, but none volunteered an answer.

“That thing again?” the guide asked. 

One of the guards stepped forward, violently stomping the butt of his staff into the to demand their attention. “Your Sub-Predor asked you a question!”

The herders glanced at the guard and his staff, which was sending off sparks of purple energy out the end, and yet they refused to speak.

“Execute one of them,” the guide ordered.

The guard stepped forward, about to plunge the head of his spear into the nearest herder, but stopped as Sira’tak raised a hand.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said dismissively. She turned to a wookiee and closed her eyes. “What is that symbol? Explain.”

There was a pause as the wookiee succumbed to her influence. It began a torrent of growls, howls, and barks; words in a language that neither Sira’tak or the other Rakata understood. But, connected to the wookiees’ mind, Sira’tak did not need to understand the words in order to understand their meaning.

“It is a symbol of the far outsiders,” the wookiee explained aloud, its voice without emotion while under Sira’tak’s influence. “The  travelers through the void. The flayed ones. The children of…”

“That’s enough titles now,” Sira’tak said, cutting the wookiee off. “Are these far outsiders real or imagined?”

“Real.”

“You said they travel through the void? They possess hyperdrive?” The wookie seemed confused at the term. “They can travel between the stars?” Sira’tak clarified.

“Yes.”

“Is one of them here now?”

“Not now.”

“When was the last time you were visited by one of these ‘outsiders’?”

The Wookiee suddenly began to resist Sira’tak’s influence. Impressed by its willpower, Sira’tak decided it easier to move to the next herder. She picked a short, more human like being, though this one had a crown of spiky horns upon her head.

“Two moons ago,” the zabrak herder answered as Sira’tak gazed into her eyes.

At once Sira’tak turned towards her guide. “How long is that in Lehon time?”

“Approximately thirty rotations,” he answered.

“And where did this far outsider go after it was done visiting you?” Sira’tak asked.

The entire group of herders pointed upwards into the sky. Sira’tak scowled before turning away from them.

“Do you want us to execute them?” one of the guards asked.

“What for?” Sira’tak asked, venom in her voice. “So they can produce even less food and the population will grow even weaker and more useless than it is now?”

“These far outsiders are likely just a myth,” the guide suggested. “I have heard that there is a grass found in the plains that, if burned and inhaled, produces hallucinations in the inferiors.”

“You are as stupid and weak as your Predor,” Sira’tak growled. Both of the guards responded by aiming their staffs at her.

“Treason!” the guide shouted. “You will  apologize or…”

In a motion so fast it was almost a blur Sira’tak grabbed both of her bladeless swords and ignited them, the sound of the crackling energy sending the nerf herders scrambling.

One of the guards swung the blade of his staff at her neck, but she deflected it with one blade with such power that the guard was thrown off balance. The other guard tried to impale her in the same instant but she kicked the side of his staff with one foot, causing the thrust to miss.

While both guards were off balance Sira’tak shoved outwards with an enormous blast of  Force energy. The guide cowered and thought himself dead, but the blast was not meant for him.

Instead the wave of energy struck the golden airship parked just  outside the circle of huts, where the pilot was frantically attempting to call in the drone fighters. The wave struck the side of the airship and flipped it over, throwing out the pilot and then crushing him underneath its mass.

Sira’tak had no time to appreciate her handiwork. Both guards attacked at once, one aiming for her chest and the other for her stomach. She deflected the high thrust and tried to sidestep the other, but didn’t entirely succeed. The spear tip,  energized by the  dark side of the  Force , seared through her ceremonial  armor and drew a small line of  blue blood .

Sira’tak snarled and refocused her energy, causing both of her blades to double in length. This took both guards by surprise. She swung at both of them at once. One of the guards attempted to deflect her blade, but it still caught his hip, while the other spun backwards and away.

The injured Rakata tried to limp backwards and raise his staff to ward off another blow, but Sira’tak pulled  it out of his grasp with the  Force and sent it flying into the other guard’s neck. He fell to the ground, already dead, while the first attempted to summon a blast of  Force energy to send at Sira’tak. She interrupted him by stabbing him through the chest.

Sira’tak turned her attention to the guide.

“Sub-Predor ... please ... I  recognize your power and your authority.”

“Kil’las is going to  recognize it soon enough, but in the meantime I can’t have you go whispering what you’ve heard here.”

She reached up one hand, preparing to lift the weakling into the air, when she heard a sound that gave her pause. The drone fighters were circling around, and seemed to now regard her as an enemy.

“Well, that is a problem,” Sira’tak admitted. The airship was still turned upside down, and wouldn’t do her much good as an escape vehicle even if it wasn’t. She glanced around for anything she could use, gathering the  Force around her in what she knew would be a futile attempt to ward off the high powered energy the drones were capable of firing at her.

A loud moo-ing sound managed to penetrate the distant, but steadily increasing howl of the Rakata drones. Sira’tak suddenly  realized that the nerf surrounding the huts were apparently oblivious to the conflict raging amidst them. The animals happily continued to chomp down on the  meager grasses in the field, despite their herders running for their lives in every direction.

Sira’tak released the energy flowing through the hilts of her bladeless weapons, powering them down and returning them to her hip. Next she held out her hands and closed her eyes.

Up in the air the drones were approaching firing range, flying in on parallel courses, their wingtips just  meters from each other. Just as they activated their weapons and trained them on Sira’tak the entire herd of nerf slowly raised into the air. Finally the herbivores reacted in surprise, kicking their hooved feet in a vain attempt at returning to the ground. With a vicious grin on her face Sira’tak raised one palm toward the drone fighters, and then the other. She repeated the motion, and each time another one of the poor bovines shot towards the drones at high velocity. 

The first nerf exploded against one of the drones in a shower of red mist. It did little damage to the  armored hull of the craft, but the  force of the impact seemed to confuse it. It drifted off course to avoid a second nerf projectile as a third one impacted against the nose of the other drone. It too drifted upwards to avoid another nerf, and unintentionally clipped the wing of its partner. Both drones tumbled out of control, all attempts at correcting their course interrupted by the additional impacts of nerf against their hulls. Moments later both craft struck the ground with enormous speed, throwing torrents of dirt and fire into the air. 

Sira’tak lowered her hands, allowing the remaining nerf that had not yet become anti-air artillery to return to the ground. Most of them began looking for grass to eat as if nothing had happened. The Sub-Predor glanced around herself, half pleased with the level of destruction she had created, but now considering her next moves.

Just as she began to walk towards the overturned airship she felt a ripple in the  Force as the guide telekinetically brought one of the dead guard’s spears into his hands.

“What are you going to do with that?” Sira’tak asked incredulously. 

The guide was uninjured but had dirt covering his head and shoulders, fallout from the downed drones. But then, to Sira’tak’s surprise, he suddenly dropped to one knee and placed the spear in the dirt in front of himself. 

“As I was saying before, Sub-Predor,” the guide began, his voice shaking slightly. “I pledge myself to your service in recognition of your power. If you are to overthrow the Predor you will need representatives from the prior administration to carry out your will. Many will seek to undermine you if they cannot challenge you directly.”

“I’m well versed in undermining authority figures,” Sira’tak stated plainly. “Do you understand why I killed those guards and the pilot?”

“They were listening as you questioned the herders about these ‘far outsiders’.”

“And the key takeaway from that questioning was?”

“I…” the guide began before trailing off. 

“Your answer will have no impact on whether you keep your life or not.”

“These ‘far outsiders’ might possess the secret of hyperdrive technology.”

“Hyperdrive technology that does not require the use of the  Force to function,” Sira’tak clarified. “We call ourselves the ‘ Infinite Empire’, but our Empire is nothing more than a string of systems scattered throughout the galaxy; systems possessing a strong signature in the  Force . Decoupled from that limitation our Empire could become truly  infinite .”

“The Rakata that discovered that technology could become the next  Over-Predor .”

“Now you understand.”

“I do. And I understand why you must kill me.”

“Perhaps,” Sira’tak said, using the  Force to lift him off of his feet. Unlike before the guide did not plead for his life or struggle. “Or perhaps you are just as stupid as you were before, but carrying a secret inside of the stupid mind of yours.” She released her invisible grasp on his body, allowing him to fall to his feet. 

“Sub-Predor?” the guide asked.

“Your M aster ’s drones are quite old. Relics of a long ago  war . It took everyone by surprise when they malfunctioned, but, despite our losses, we prevailed.”

The guide glanced at the two dead guards. “I can burn the bodies.”

“That would likely suffice,” Sira’tak agreed. “What is your name?”

“Nol’las.”

“A relative of the Predor?”  
“I am the son of one of his cousins. He never seems to remember.”

“Very well, Nol’las. I will accept you into my service. But if you betray me I will kill you and allow the inferiors to eat your corpse.”

“I understand,” Nol’las said, bowing his head. Sira’tak turned her attention towards the overturned airship. She had less confidence in Nol’las than she did the nerf, but she needed his help in selling a cover story, even if it would not hold up for long. 

She reached out a hand and the airship lifted into the air before flipping and returning to its upright position. The pilot’s blood was splattered across the hull. “Be quick, Nol’las,” Sira’tak called. “We’ll have to hunt down the herders. We can leave no witnesses.”

“Understood Sub-Predor,” Nol’las answered as he focused on summoning purple lightning to scorch the guard’s bodies.

Next to Sira’tak one of the surviving nerf moo’ed at her. Sira’tak glanced down and realized she was standing next to a particularly tasty clump of grass that the nerf was eyeing. “You can keep  _ your _ life,” Sira’tak said to it in amusement. 

* * *

Juro’na and Kal’los led their small prisoners through the darkened halls of the palace. The children followed silently, not daring an attempt at escape. Despite some rudeness their captors had not hurt them past their initial capture out in the streets. Sira’tak’s subordinates paused, however, as they neared one of the lifts that granted access to the dungeons. Six of Kil’las’s warriors stood waiting for them, along with the Predor’s Censor. The haughty Rakata glanced down at the children with a sneer before focusing his attention on them.

“You will transfer your prisoners to my custody,” the Censor ordered. 

Juro’na and Kal’los glanced at each other for a moment. Finally Kal’los tilted his head to one side. “These humans belong to Sira’tak.”

“They belong to Predor Kil’las, seeing as they are on his world,” the Censor replied. “If you do not give them up we will kill you.”

“Then it seems we have no choice,” Juro’na admitted reluctantly. He stepped aside and pushed Esson towards the Censor. Kil’las snarled but did the same, nearly throwing Maryn towards the warriors. “What are you doing to do with them?” Juro’na asked.

“They will be taken to the dungeons,” the Censor said quietly. Two of the guards grabbed the children and moved them onto the lift. “Where they will await the  Culling .”

Juro’na and Kal’los glanced at each other once more. They both knew what the  Culling was. Whenever  Force sensitive beings were caught amongst the inferiors they would be thrown in prison, and when the prisons were full public executions would follow. The manner of the  Culling varied. Sometimes Predors would  force the prisoners to kill each other, and the last survivor might become a servant of their lord. Other times they unleashed Rakata Destroyers, giant autonomous  war machines, onto them and enjoyed the carnage.

“When is the next  Culling ?” Juro’na asked.

“Unknown,” the Censor began. “But I’m sure that my M aster can be persuaded to move it up. Is there a problem?”

Kal’los was about to answer before Juro’na cut him off. “No problem,” he answered. “They are just humans, after all.”

“Indeed,” the Censor said, although he eyed the pair of Rakata warily. The Censor and his warriors stepped onto the lift, which promptly descended out of view.

“What are we going to do now?” Kal’los asked. “Sira’tak wants those two alive. How else will she draw out the mother?”

“There is nothing we can do about it at the moment,” Juro’na pointed out. “It will take time to  organize a  Culling , however they do it on this world. Sira’tak should be back by then.” 

Kal’los scowled and then turned back down the corridor. “Until then I will  familiarize myself with Kil’las’s palace,” he said. As he disappeared down the corridor he smashed the side of his hand into the wall, leaving a crack in the stone behind.

* * *

The dungeons at the heart of Kil’las’s palace were similar in  aesthetic to the upper passageways, although the black stone was not polished and the red light emanating from the ceiling wasn’t as bright. The guards led Esson and Maryn through a narrow passageway and into a much larger room. Rows of cages, built of black metallic bars, lined each side of the hall. The beings inside the cages were a pitiful bunch, a mix of all of the species living under Kil’las’s rule. Most sat in a  dark corner of their cages, attempting to  disappear from sight .

“This  one will do ,” the Censor said, gesturing towards an empty cage. With a wave of their hand one of the guards unlocked the door and the children found themselves pushed inside. A moment later the Rakata disappeared with hardly a glance at any of the other prisoners. It was silent within the prison block, except for the sound of haggard breathing. None of the other prisoners seemed interested in speaking with one another. Everyone seemed resigned to their fates.

Esson moved around the perimeter of the cage, getting to know the space, while Maryn gripped a pair of bars in the locked door, pushing them and testing their strength. She pushed not just with her arms, but with the  Force as well, yet the result was the same. Nothing. Giving up, she turned to find her brother resisting the urge to gag, his gaze turned purposefully towards the ceiling.

“What is it?” she asked.

“There is dried blood covering the floor,” he answered. She gazed downwards and finally noticed that the black tile was stained in various shades of  red, orange and purple . Her nose wrinkled but she found herself hardly surprised. These living conditions, as bad as they were, weren’t much different than living in the city.

“What are we going to do?” she asked. 

Esson hesitated, before answering. “Call for help?”

“Mother told us to never reach out to her,” Maryn pointed out.

“Because the Rakata might notice us,” Esson responded quietly. “I don’t think we had to worry about that now.”

“But ... do you think she’ll be well enough to even leave the house?” 

“Even if she isn’t we have to let her know that we’ve been taken,” Esson whispered. Despite the disgusting floor the boy sat and crossed his legs. He held out his hands and then looked up at his sister. “I need your help.”

“Fine,” she said at last. She took a seat in front of her brother and took his hands. Together they closed their eyes and began to reach out with the  Force , using the depressing aura surrounding them in an attempt at hiding their signature. If any of the other prisoners noticed this seemingly peculiar  behavior nobody made a sound.


End file.
